Passions
by precious whore
Summary: Tango scene between the Argentinean and Nini...focused on the intensity.


Passions.  
  
© precious whore [2003]  
  
Rights: Moulin Rouge is sole property of Baz Luhrmann. Included song lyrics are property of Maynard Keenan of the band Tool.  
  
×××  
  
Fevered glances. Match the fevered intensity.  
  
Intensity. The whoring ground of energies unspent and needs unsatiated. The breeding ground for emotions.  
  
Desire. Passion. Suspicion. Jealousy. Anger. Betrayal.  
  
Her approach. Playful, standoffish, impersonal nonchalance. Improperly concealed desire; craving the intimacy and passion found only in his touch. A quick smile full of...self assured arrogance, derived from self defense.  
  
He knows. He seems to know everything with those dark eyes, harboring those brooding thoughts behind them.  
  
Fevered glances. Her eyes casual. His eyes focused.  
  
Posturing before one another. Straightening, moving, positioning. Nearly touching; the beginning of their union calm with underlying passion. Her face slack. His face hard.  
  
They both know what is coming. They both know what is expected of them. His assertive dominance; her assumed submission.  
  
She does it for him. Only. He is the one she devotes herself to, however tense and detached the one is to the other. She finds solace in his quiet intensity. He finds sanctity in hers.  
  
Circling. Desire. Taking in the idea, the knowing of what is to come. Her body trembles slowly, eyes downcast. Suddenly lifted to stare him in the face. Spirit fiery, body lithe. His body tenses, knowing how she is affected. Gazing down. Hoping, oh such a secret desire, to catch her eye, to hold it for as long as conceivable.  
  
Spinning. Passion. Bodies pressed together, nearly as one. Skin on skin, breath on skin, sweat on skin. So much touch, so much intimacy, so much closeness. Nearly creating a current betwixt his body and hers. Inhaling their mingled scent, spicey and electrical in the air. The scent of her flesh, the feel of his breath.  
  
Repelling. Suspicion. An accusation: her arm gripped so painfully in his hand. Control asserted over her. Muscles taut on both bodies. Ready to cringe or attack; ready to seduce or over-power.  
  
Fevered glances. Her eyes straying away. His eyes darkening.  
  
Escalation.  
  
Spinning. Jealousy. Spinning. Anger. Spinning. Betrayal.  
  
Fevered glances. Her eyes fearful. His eyes darker.  
  
Darker still.  
  
Fury taints his powerful calm. Fear taints her self reliance. Spun, shoved, pulled, spun. Hand crushed, abused, mistreated. Disbelief mars her face. Wince in pain. Hand to her chest: clutching, cradling, nursing the hurt.  
  
Adoration and respect and fear and hatred all at once for his dark eyes, his powerful muscles, his intensity.  
  
Adoration and respect and fear and hatred all at once for her false independence, her compelling persona, her intensity.  
  
Seeking another man's touch. Replace the fear with artificial desire and artificial affection. Satisfactory for the time being; damaging in the long run. "It's not enough anymore, nothing seems to satisfy. I said, 'I don't want it! I just need it to breathe, to feel, to know I'm alive.'"  
  
Anger and indignation. His feelings controlled. But he knows. He knows. She will always come back to him.  
  
Returned. Leaning in close to his body...lips smug, lips teasing, lips a mockery of his desire. Of her desire.  
  
Suddenly...fearful. Of her own actions. Of his hold over her. Of his power.  
  
Her retreat. Nervous, broken, personal shame. His decision. Passionate, needy, risky. A beckon, a call, a plea. Pleading for both of them with one voice.  
  
Fevered glances. Her eyes coy. His eyes desperate.  
  
Her vulnerability shaken, replaced with power once more. His power shaken, replaced with uncharacteristic vulnerability. Role reversal.  
  
Fevered glances. Her eyes contemplative. His eyes contemplative.  
  
Roles resumed.  
  
Another call, another beckon. Owner to owned. Bound by their intensity, their friction, their charge to one another. Circling and posturing and keeping distance.  
  
Her distress, her fear, her vulnerability exploited by desire. Shaken. Fearful.  
  
His patience, his need, his vulnerability exploited by desire. Waiting. Waiting.  
  
Fevered glances. Her eyes desiring. His eyes calm.  
  
An impasse.  
  
Her return to him. He knew it to be. Her begging for salvation; his decision based on his hold over her.  
  
Repelled. Again. There is no trust. There is only intensity. There can be no love...they both are aware. Neither are willing to admit to it.  
  
Fevered glances. Her eyes closed. His eyes cold.  
  
Fevered glances. Match their fevered intensity. 


End file.
